No Honor in Death
by storylistener
Summary: Not everyone is thrilled to serve with Honor Harrington.
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_** All characters and names that are recognizable are the property of their creators. No money is being made and no offense is meant. Please don't sue.

**_Author's Note: _**Hey all. This story was actually written by my dad. He would love some feed back and I will be sure to send reviews on to him. Thank you for reading!

**No Honor in Death**

The young Petty Officer stepped off personnel carrier and onto his new ship. The HMS _Wanderlust_ was a newly refitted battle cruiser just out from the yards. She'd made a short shake out cruise around the system manned only by her officer cadre and a minimal crew of veterans before calling at the main transshipment station to pick up her regular contingent of non-coms and ratings.

The interior smelled of oil and disinfectant, too sterile for a fully contained environment for 637 officers and people. The omnipresent whisper of fans in ductwork spoke into a profound silence among the nervous crew members arriving in her number three boat bay. Most Navy veterans long ago had learned to ignore the fans, and even lowly Petty Officers shouldn't have noticed, but the lack of chatter among the crew was unprecedented in his short year of experience. Put any unacquainted group of humans together and just like their ape cousins, there was bound to be a lot of noise as the social networks that would govern their interactions off duty were quickly established.

But this boatload of newcomers were silent as a tomb. The news they had received on the short drift from the station to the ship had them all worried. The CO was famous, the most decorated naval officer in Manticore's long proud history of naval belligerence with her neighbors. Why they had to have the "honor" of serving her on this ship was the lid pressing down on their moods. The future didn't look bleak, it simply wasn't even there to look at.

"Always wanted to die a hero" muttered someone to his left and behind him as they moved toward their quarters. The words echoed in the quiet that pervaded the corridor. Nervous glances quelled the speaker and they moved to their assigned bunks in silence.

Petty Officer Stephan Schwartzpunct pulled out his journal and flipped through the pages. He enjoyed using pencil on paper rather than the neural interface that let people directly record their thoughts to words on a screen without the bother of coordinating their forearms and fingers to actually write. He had to special order the material from a archeological reproductions store in a famous museum, but the focus it brought to his thoughts was worth the expense. It also kept his thoughts private since virtually nobody could read ancient cursive anymore.

'Today we boarded our new ship, and I know I am going to die.'

He looked at the words that had seemingly flowed out of his pencil of their own accord. Everyone knew the famous record of their hero Commanding Officer. She had, against great odds, repeatedly pulled victory from the jaws of defeat, defended the Queen's Honor and saved the Kingdom (why isn't it a "Queendom" he wondered) from peril in desperate fights in the vacuum of space. Of course in the process she had a habit of losing the majority of her assigned ships, and an average of over 68% casualties, but she won! She'd lost several significant portions of her anatomy to various wounds, in space and planetside, had the pleasure of striking (and humiliating) an effete aristocrat, threatening the most wealthy man in the system, killing an aristocrat sent to kill her in "honorable" combat, shattering the religious beliefs and defying the social customs of an entire star system, and in general breaking rule after rule to get the job done. She was the acknowledged hero of many far away places with strange sounding names and had even been made a member of the aristocracy on one of them. But as far as her new crew was concerned she had a habit of all too frequently "going in harms way" and getting her command shot to hell.

The good news was that the _Wanderlust_ was to be her flagship. The one she physically occupied while directing her fleet. To Stephan's understanding, she had never been picked up in a lifeboat after the total destruction of her own ship, so that statistically he had about a 1 in 3 chance of avoiding death or dismemberment over the period of his tour of duty. That wasn't encouraging. Just how had a fifth year Archeology PhD candidate ended up in this predicament?

***

Planetary junkyard Chi-Alpha XIII was a total desert. Some wag had nick-named it "Arrakis" but the joke was a reach, since this particular dust ball was entirely devoid of life forms and despite its nearly breathable atmosphere. Stellar history had been cruel to "Arrakis", since according the planetologists, there had been abundant life here until the system happened to pass through a Gamma Geyser erupting from a distant (but no distant enough) rapidly forming black hole. The intense bombardment of cosmic rays had effectively sterilized the place, leaving the atmosphere mostly intact and the surface a barren wasteland. And in the view of Systems Survey Service, that made it an ideal dump. That had been several centuries ago. Now it was a wonderful archeological site for identifying the minute details of life in the late Diaspora and early settlement period of this portion of the galaxy. Dumps have always been archeological goldmines, and this was planet sized! Several decades of "discoveries" had launched and sustained the academic careers of some of Manticore's most prominent archeologists. Literally thousands of graduate students had provided free labor in order to obtain enough data to write their theses. When Graduate Assistant Schwartzpunct had arrived at CA13, he was put in charge of 10 masters candidates among the 50 or so people currently scraping and digging and cataloguing there.

Unfortunately, the Navy had decided that the (now officially named) "Arrakis System" needed a Navy base and Chi-Alpha XIII was the perfect place for planetside system headquarters; and the archeological dig was in the way. The Department of Antiquities and the Society for Appreciation and Preservation of the Past protested vigorously. The planet was an invaluable record of the technological and economic history of Manticore. The Navy just had to hold its guns until they at least cleared out a big enough area for them to blade and grade their proposed 5000 hectare building site and prep the adjacent spaceport landing zone. The Navy was less than thrilled with the prospect of waiting another ten years for the academics to "clean up" their site, the rather random pattern of previous digs had not created very much contiguous cleared space. According the politicians they would just have to wait.

This was all well and good until piracy became an issue in a nearby system, and Arrakis was deemed the only staging ground fit to support the anti-piracy efforts. The Star Kingdom of Manticore's economy was based on her strategic position at the junction of several wormholes that allowed her merchant fleet quick and relatively cheap access to many other star systems. In short, Manticore was a trading empire built around her Merchant Marine; and anything that threatened the merchants threatened the economy and everyone in the Star Kingdom. Pirates changed priorities, and the importance of history was duly shifted down a few notches.

The Parliament duly took up the question of the archeological site on CA13, and began studied and serious debate. This was not quite quick enough for Her Majesties Navy, who wanted that forward base NOW. The university types who occupied the site refused to see reason and the Naval Bureau of Materials and Resources Acquisition was not amused. They invoked a little known portion of the Emergency Personnel Act and drafted the entire crew, students and professors alike. Over 120 Professors, Grad Assistants, students and support staff were summarily rounded up, mustered into the Navy and entered into the Bureau of Personnel's database. The personnel computers spat out the professors as too old (or well-connected) and the undergrads as too young. But graduate students with no powerful relatives were retained (with initial ratings in keeping with their educational achievements of course). The computers happily assessed their skills and background, and assigned them to appropriate training cycles designed to best take advantage of their skills.

So after 6 months of hurried training, Junior Petty Officer Schwartzpunct found himself in charge of maintaining the algae that refreshed their breathing air in Environmental Maintenance Command. From digging trash out of sand and dust to babysitting seaweed in half a year. And no dissertation!

Stephan had spent the next 7 or 8 months (he was loosing track) aboard a myriad of ship types assigned to local system duties, to familiarize him with as wide a range of Environmental Maintenance systems as possible. The worst had been the "honeypot" barge that emptied refuse from the gleaming starships and transported it to the recycling station to be transformed into plant food for his precious algae. He'd almost enjoyed the interesting problems associated with marine landing equipment (they needed portable air scrubbers for engagements longer that a few days and he found the miniaturized algae farms sort of "Cute") and the Marines knew they needed him to keep breathing, so they showed him a little more tolerance (respect would have been too strong a term) than the typical Navy types. You could almost say the marines were more "down to earth," except that would be a terrible pun.

Because of his demonstrated intellect, Stephan was quickly put in a position of nominal leadership and responsibility. Because of that same demonstrated intellect he was not expected to become a combat officer, nor a "leader of men" like the top non-coms. In fact, despite itself, the Navy had correctly tagged him to run, troubleshoot and maintain a small but vital system with the fewest direct reports under him possible. The algae tanks were perfect! His ability to nurture and maintain the perfect environment for the microscopic plants soon earned him the nickname "Slimemaster Steve." He managed this unofficial personal nomenclature into the more subtle variant "Slim." He counted himself fortunate that he had not pulled the duty to support the digestive tanks that handled the bio-refuse for the ship. Having dealt with collegial bureaucracies for as long as he had, it was not a big leap to recognizing and keeping away from the worst assignments in the Navy. He was adaptable sort and accepted the impromptu militarization of his life stoically. In fact there were a few bonuses, his student loans had been automatically cancelled when he graduated "Basic" and became an official member of Her Majesty's Navy. Wait a few years, slide out of the service, and finish his PhD without the major part of the debt load he had expected.

Now he wasn't so sure he would last that long.

"Slimemaster!" a loud baritone voice buffeted his ears and a calloused hand that looked more like a paw from and Old Earth Kodiak Bear smacked his shoulder, nearly knocking him over." How the hell are you?"

Marine Gunnery Sergeant Paddington Diaspar, known only to his closest friends as Paddy (everyone else just used "Sir") had developed a fondness for Stephan despite the difference in their physical stature and general attitudes. Apparently "Slim" reminded the heavily muscled Marine of his kid sister, who was currently finishing up her Masters at the University of Sphinx. Their relationship had been cemented when the Algae tender had taken no offense at being compared to a girl, but immediately inquired about her academic future and offered to refer her to several influential department heads he knew. Paddy found it refreshing to find a Navy type who accepted he wasn't a Marine and didn't mind the difference.

"How did a green thumb like you get lucky enough to be assigned to HER Flagship?" The marine continued with obvious enthusiasm for his new posting. "With her record, even a skinny legged PO might end up a decorated hero."

The term "end UP" was unfortunately in tune with the general trend of Stephan's gloomy thoughts. But there was no reason to rain on his large friend's buoyant mood, so he reverted to technical issues.

"How are the microscrubbers on this ship, Paddy? I haven't had a chance to check them out yet, but I'll bet you already have." Marines had relatively few shipboard duties besides maintaining equipment and manning laser mounts in the ship's back-up Point Defense System. They were the "back-up" since their job was to manually aim the things if the triple redundant computer controlled firing systems somehow went down. So it was probable that the "Gunny" had already been into storage to inspect the critical Enviro systems that would sustain his Marines in an extended dirtside action.

The massive Gunnery Sergeant rose to the offered subject change Like a Barracuda after an escaping sardine. "You're Gonna like 'em Kid. They are the new Mark 23.6 Units. The ones with that new Hybrid slime you were going on about on our last assignment"

The unlikely duo started toward the storage lockers talking quietly. Several heads turned as they went down the corridor. A marine, familiarizing himself with the new ship's layout smiled indulgently, only to be elbowed by a nearby damage control tech.

"What's with those two? Talk about your odd couple!" the tech almost sniggered.

Klaus Verstrappen controlled his immediate (and potentially injurious) physical reflex response to the nudge and merely turned slowly to this annoying navy type who had just invaded his private space. "Why, jealous?" He put a companionable arm around tech's the narrow shoulders, and smiled at him beatifically, "Lonely?"

Casey Warthburn was immediately both frightened and embarrassed. He tried to wriggle out of the big marine's hold but found he couldn't. A wolfish smile gleamed down at him from a face at least 8 centimeters above his own. _My God, what have I gotten myself into?_

Klaus had to keep himself from laughing in this twerp's face, but he felt he might as well straighten him out now, or spend the rest of his time dealing with the little twit's friends. He released his hold on the tech's shoulders and changed his grip to a friendly hand on the near one, "gently" massaging while the navy type manfully tried not to wince too noticeably.

"Just because the Gunny doesn't find all you pencil necked navy types annoying doesn't mean he's looking for a date, unless your offering, of course." Verstrappen's casual baritone rattled into Warthburn's ear as well as through the bones of his skull.

"I was just, that is, I didn't mean to..." Warthburn babbled, stopping himself when he realized he wasn't going to get anything coherent out.

Klaus decided to let up on the shoulder and simply placed his hand on the panicky tech's back. He figured he better lighten up, or the kid was going to piss himself, not a good thing in an enclosed space, no matter how effective the ventilation system.

"Listen kid, because I'm only going to explain this once. The Gunny has found something in that walking scarecrow he thinks is valuable. The Slimemaster's a good egg, considering he's was a perpetual student before he was drafted. Getting yanked out of academia and into the navy without warning or any choice could have left him stuck up and pissy, like a lot of you navy brats. But Slimemaster's OK. Master Gunnery Sergeant Diaspar (these last four words practically came out of his mouth in underlined bold characters) has found something there worthwhile, and I'm smart enough to NEVER challenge the Gunny's judgment of people or situations. We've served together before, and Slim gets along with us just fine. Without his little green friends turning our CO2 into O2, we wouldn't last long here, or out there." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder indicating the vast empty darkness outside the ships hull. "You damage control types may get the privilege of cleaning up the blood and guts after a fight, but he's the guy that's got to figure out how to keep us breathing. I suggest you watch and learn, before you further exercise such obviously poor character evaluation skills"

Klaus patted Casey on the back, without knocking him over, smiled and walked away down the corridor to check out the mess hall. Casey just stood there rubbing his "massaged" shoulder and staring after the big Marine. _Who'd've thought those guys would like someone like that weird Enviro PO? I guess it doesn't hurt to have large friends, even in low places like Enviro._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter**** 2**

"So have you seen the Duchess yet?" Clayton Tolivieri hissed. Curiosity was replacing fear and foreboding as _Wanderlust_ sped on her and the crew found themselves still alive. No battles against hopeless odds, no brilliant tactics, no ventures into harms way, so far.

Stephan was sitting at mess with Clay and a few other worker bees from various parts of Enviro. Gossip about the _Famous Personage _in the Captain's Chair had become a regular part of meal times. He only half-listened since nobody had any real information beyond what he had already discovered. You could take the PhD candidate out of academia, but you couldn't shake that bone-deep need to research everything; and one thing he had learned to do in close to ten years of collegiate studies was to be a really good researcher. Give him a computer terminal, some time, and a decent data base, and he could find out just about anything published and a few things that weren't.

That was one of the advantages of Naval service, he had to admit to himself. You had access to the best databases in existence. Her Majesty's Navy recognized that information was power and made sure her decision makers were well supplied with any information they could possibly need. Add to that the somewhat disturbing thoroughness of Naval Intelligence Services, and you ended up with a researchers' bounty of background on almost any subject. When your "work" primarily involved watching algae grow, you had lots of time to pursue information.

"Nope!" Came a reply from down the table, "but I hear that everyone she meets is enthralled with her, and ready to follow her to ... whatever." This note squared with what "Slim" had been able to find out. It wasn't' surprising that the Marines he knew, who were already Gun Ho by nature, had fallen under her spell, but many of the more practical minded ensigns and non-coms seemed suddenly so much more "military" in their bearing and attitudes after crossing her path. It wasn't fear of discipline so much as a new view of what it meant to serve in Her Majesty's Navy.

"And Ahab seduces the crew." He muttered.

"Huh? What are you on about Slim? What's an Ahab?" Ancient Earth literature had been one of his first loves in the study of antiquities, but it was unlikely this largely unlettered bunch would understand his reference. "Just call me Ishmael." He added dryly.

"God, Slim! Do you have to be so ... odd?" Clay added without heat. They had already figured he was different, and had accepted his peculiarities since he didn't seem standoffish or unwilling to join their little community. Still they often wished he would make a little more effort at being normal.

He shrugged eloquently, smiled and swallowed the retort about ignoring the past and being damned to repeat it. As far as he would see, they were probably damned anyways. He shed that last gloomy thought as non-productive and redirected the conversation.

"Anyone find out where it is we're headed?"

"Pirate patrols and merchant convoy escort duty in the Socratic Gap" answered a winsome redhead from Ventilation Maintenance. With her happy personality and ability to quickly find the problems in air flow that often plagued large ships, she had been appropriately nicknamed "Windy." He didn't know her by any other name. "Do you think we'll get to blow away any pirates?" She shivered with unsuppressed excitement.

"Seems unlikely," Clay put in. "Any Pirate that saw this battlewagon lurking around would high tail it out of detection range, or simply never reveal itself by turning on a propulsion system to begin with. They want easy prey, not a fight with professionals possessing an overwhelming firepower advantage. They wouldn't win a confrontation with a destroyer, let alone this old girl." Windy seemed somewhat disappointed by his analysis.

"Still, The Captain has been noted for action against pirates before, even won the crew a little prize geld on occasion. She and some of her officers have a special "dislike" for pirates, left over from action in Silesia, before we split it up with the Anderman Empire. At least this time we're not likely to run into enemy sponsored raiders. They can have a lot more firepower than I find comfortable."

"Prize Money?" Windy's eye grew large and she pondered the idea of pirate raiders and rescuing merchantmen from their claws in a raging firefight. Stephan could see it in they way she hung on Clay's every word, hear it in her voice was she contemplated her share of pirate gold. Lord! Why did they keep handing kids those old adventures tales without a disclaimer.?

The conversation shifted to other subjects, and Slim lost track as he pondered the peculiarities of the new algae hybrid in the portable oxygen units. They were necessarily small, which limited the rate at which any one unit could process CO2 to O2, which in turn limited the size of enclosure the marines could erect in a prolonged engagement. While many small targets made it harder for an enemy to destroy vital supplies, it also limited the efficiency with which advanced units should be resupplied. That lack of flexibility bothered him. If History proved anything, inflexible constraints on the military were an invitation to disaster. He knew he wasn't a tactician, but he was a voracious reader of history, and having dug up his share of it, he listened closely to the lessons history taught.

Something in the conversation stream around him brought up from the depths of his reverie. An Engineer in, what was it, Bio-Waste?

"...why anyone would let a crazy old coot like him aboard a modern starship is beyond me!" Windy was saying in an unusually (for her) exasperated tone. Windy had been following a problem in the return air line that had taken her deep into the bowels of the ship. "Bowel" in this case could be taken almost literally, for she had ventured into the shunned area of the ship dedicated to collection, processing, and recycling of biological waste, the ship's sewer system. Techs unfortunate enough to be assigned to Enviro/Bio WT&R were often referred to by their peers as Pooper Scoopers or the Potty Patrol, despite the obviously vital part their system played aboard any ship. Nobody went into the bowels without a strong reason. Careers were buried down in there.

Stephan knew the rudiments of the recycling and recovery units since they supplied fluids and nutrients for his little kingdom of photosynthesizers. He also had studied plans of the system since he figured it might be a great place to get some privacy, away from the ever present sociability of his fellow conscripts. One didn't get to high academic levels by partying, and you couldn't be much of a "people Person" and still spend long days with an old toothbrush and a hand trowel digging through the dusty past at some remote archeological site.

"Don't worry about Mad Henri, Windy," said a marine at the next table over. Marge Johansson was a tech sergeant with short cut auburn hair, a weather-beaten complexion and an affable nature that included everyone in the immediate area in her circle of friends. She was also a specialist in unarmed combat and could take out virtually anyone in the crew with blinding speed and efficiency. "He's a bit odd, but he has more than earned his place on any warship he had a mind to request. After he escaped from the Alsace System when the Peeps took it over, he ended up in the CO's command and made quite a name for himself as a man who can fix anything. His on-the-fly improvements in some of our systems have been incorporated throughout the fleet. He's harmless."

"Is he really insane?" Windy persisted. "He nearly scared me to death when I bumped into him. I though he might be raving, he was so hard to understand."

Marge smiled, sighed and said quietly (for her), "His home planet was colonized from Old France, and they had a funny attitude toward Standard or any other language. Besides, he was a survivor from the HMS Madrigal, in the Masada Incident. It left him a little, well, peculiar. That's why they buried him down in the "Bowels". He gets plenty of time to tinker, and nobody bothers him, nor he them. Still, if you ever have a REAL engineering problem, and you need outside-the-box thinking, he's about as far outside as you'll find."

Stephan's curiosity was roused now. He'd dealt with enough wacky old emeritus professors not to be too worried about dealing with a harmless nutcase, and he always was interested in unique solutions to any problem. "Mad" Henri might just be a worthwhile fellow to cultivate, if he could find him. And Stephan was looking for someone with whom he could practice his Ancient French language skills.

***

The Exec wakened to the signal light on his communicator blinking for attention. He reached over, and made the effort to sound alert and awake, neither of which he really felt, since only the Captain would be calling at this hour. "Yes Ma'am?"

Her tone told him immediately that this was not a "whole Ship" issue, or really an official problem, but something more personal in nature. He listened intently to the worried voice.

"Yes captain, he's on board."

She wouldn't let that concerned tone creep into her conversation with anyone else aboard, but they had served together long enough that she would let down her guard just a bit in a private talk with her Executive Officer.

"I know how important this is to you Ma'am. I made sure the Chief Petty Officer understood about his "peculiarities" and The Chief will make sure nobody bothers him. We'll keep an eye on him."

"…Yes, I know you care about him. We also have a few marines aware of him, in case things get out of hand. Sergeant Johansson likes to think of him as a wayward uncle. She would tear apart anyone that bothered him Ma'am."

He checked his chrono. The Old Lady was up late, even for her. Her loyalty to staff was legendary, but he would have to remind her that a sleep was needed for efficiency, even by a living legend.

"…Thank you Ma'am. Nothing more than my job."

He rolled over and tried to take full advantage of the time remaining before his next watch.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Jacques Laffite stared at the empty sensor screen and frowned. The merchant traffic had all but dried up in the last few T-Days. He had purposely refrained from being too greedy in his "harvesting" of the occasional cargo ship passing through he Socratic Gap. He'd hoped that the authorities would spend the considerable resources and time it took to mount a patrol and convoy escort effort this far off the main trade routes, but it looked like they just might be paying attention anyway. The change in traffic signaled a that at least a convoy structure was being imposed on the usually scattered flow of materials and merchandize between The Platonic System and Aristotle. Was someone else poaching out here?

The Socratic Gap was a an area on the route between the two major trade centers of the Philosophers Arm that was relatively empty of massive objects. The regular and well patterned gravity waves there made it attractive for hyper ships, but like the larger stretches of open ocean on old earth, the hazards were greater with so few "ports" to run to. Laffite had found a nice brown dwarf binary with a cold but conveniently placed orbital body where his "Fleet" could lay in wait of any slow moving target and stalk it to its destination. His "Client", who was happy to relieve him of the captured goods and ships, was also conveniently available in the Arm, and their little arrangement was proving profitable for everyone involved; except of course the merchants.

Fencing stolen goods and even "salvaged" space ships was a delicate business that required excellent relations with local governments. One had to pick and choose ones targets carefully to avoid offending the authorities whose cooperation was required. Their apparent legitimacy also gave Jacques a relatively stable platform from which to return "rescued" crews to the loving (and generous) arms of their employers.

Merchant barons like the Hauptmans couldn't afford the negative publicity that a public admission of losses to pirates would bring. If their security was so lax, shippers might turn to other lines to transport their materials. The stockholders would never stand for it. So most of the corporate giants that owned the ships Laffite preyed upon covered up their losses and paid (reasonable) ransoms for the safe return of their highly trained crews. After all, losing crews would be as bad for employee morale and productivity as announcing the extent of piracy losses would be for business. They might have to raise the crew's salaries enormously just to keep the ships staffed!

This quiet yet effective confluence of interests could be shattered of the losses were too egregious or the crews were not treated well. You could only push the Hauptmans so far, before their political friends got the Manticore Navy to push back; and that wasn't healthy for business. Therefore Jacques Laffite followed the example of that old Earth pirate whose name he had appropriated, and was selective in his predation. Thus he was most definitely put out to find that somebody, obviously was messing up his system. The change in traffic told him that. Next the damn military would show up and he would have to find another fertile fishing ground.

_No! I will not be kicked out the Gap! My little dark haven of Nuveuax Barataria is just too nice a place to loose without at least contesting the invader. But who is the culprit?_

He decided to consult with his "clients" to find if anyone had been going behind his back. Like any good manager, he had agents supplying him with information scattered throughout the Philosophers Arm. Somebody should know something. And if one of his trusted "clients" was two timing him, well, that just wouldn't be tolerated. He was a pirate after all.

***

Jonathan S. Parrow put down the message file he had just received from Nouveaux Barataria. His boss had ordered him to make inquiries, discrete or otherwise, into the possibility that one or more of their partners in commerce were outsourcing. Personally, he had no problems with a little healthy competition, but in their line of commerce, to much was a recipe for disaster. Greed hath its limits. And one of those limits was the Royal Manticoran Navy.

Known as "Jack" to his friends, colleagues and anyone else he had met more than once, Parrow was the head of information gathering and "customer relations" for Laffite's little empire. He had a legitimate cover as a local tax attorney and export agent in Troy, the only habitable planet in the Damocles binary system. Jack was fastidious about his respectable image, serving on the boards of several local charities and keeping a very conservative social life. His contact within the local movers and shakers of the Trojan merchant elite, as well as his friends in government made him a much sought after associate for those trying to set up businesses in the rapidly developing trade sector. His carefully cultivated image also made him the perfect go between for a space pirate and the greedy local officials who fenced his ill-gotten gains.

Troy was in an advantageous position as a trade junction in the remote Philosophers Arm. Due to the peculiar geometry of the Damocles Binary, Troy was both close enough to the fusion furnaces to remain well within the thermal range of planets habitable by humans, and still reasonably close to the hyper limit for significant portions of its local year. There were three other planets that might well have supported colonization by terran life forms, and periodically did support a small resort community, but the Damocles system had a hidden peculiarity that ruled them out a site of permanent settlement by any but the most dedicated and well-dug in habitants. Damocles had its Sword.

Sword was the name applied by early surveyors to the dark planetoid with the highly eccentric orbit that swung wildly through the star system every 15 T-years. As it swung close to either of the twin stars, it's icy core thawed just enough to cause cataclysmic explosions to rock it shattered surface, expelling huge amounts of crustal debris, leaving a trail of rocky space flotsam through the orbits of the inboard planets. This trail of debris would get caught up by the complex interplay of gravity wells in the inner system and rain down on the unfortunate planets in a cataclysm of meteorite impacts that rendered their surfaces uninhabitable. Troy was in a "hole" in this orbital pinball game, just far enough out to avoid most of the shed debris and further sheltered by the gravity wells of two gas giants that swept up the cast offs. Of course the very random nature of the system meant that at any time some of that debris could slip past the guardians, or be shed farther out than normal, and the residents of Troy would find out what it felt like on Earth to be a Dinosaur at the end of the Cretaceous. In the time frame of the universe, the Sword was a very short lived phenomenon, the planetoid would soon completely tear itself to shreds and the planets would finish sweeping up the debris, but in human terms, the problem would last throughout the foreseeable future.

Having the proverbial (or I this case literal)Sword of Damocles hanging over their head periodically left the citizens of Troy with a uniquely short term outlook on life, which blended well with the short term profits to be gained by countenancing a little judicious piracy in the neighborhood. The lassiez faire attitude of Troy allowed for a great deal of eye winking at some activities that a people with a view toward an historical legacy might find less tolerable. Much like Edwardian England on old earth, the general attitude was whatever adults did in private was between them, as long as they didn't do it in the street and frighten the horses. Pirates throughout the history of mankind had always found this sort of social environment to their liking.

A cheerful face answered Parrow's phone call.

"Federal House, office of the Executive. Oh! Hi Mr. Parrow."

"Hello Penelope! Is Helena available" Jack responded with an answering smile of his own. Penelope was an efficient and intelligent woman, who made an outstanding executive assistant. President Hector Paris found her invaluable. But Jack was not interested in talking to the head of state right now, he needed to talk to the real power in Troy. "Is Mrs. Paris available?"

"Helena has a meeting with the Federal House Staff in about 20 minutes but I think she has time to talk to you."

"Thank you Penelope. By the way, when is your husband due back?"

"Oh, jeez! He's been delayed again. I just don't know when that man is ever going to get back here."

"Terrible!" Jack responded with wink. "He better get back here soon or you're going to have to shoo away the eligible bachelors with a stick."

"Who said anything about beating them off?" She said archly. "Besides, my son won't let them anywhere near me. Mac is so protective." She looked down at a blinking light on her terminal, notifying her that Helena Paris was ready to accept the call, which she had no doubt been monitoring already. "Mrs. Paris is available, but don't keep her too long. She really does have a meeting soon."

Penelope's smiling face was replaced by the exotic beauty of Helena Paris. Almond shaped hazel eyes looked out from delicate cheek bones under astonishing honey colored eyebrows and thick flowing hair of the same indescribable color. Her husband Hector may be the elected head of state, but everyone knew that any important decisions went through Helena. And Jack knew that any important information went _to_ her.

"Captain Jack! What happy chance brings you to break up my dull routine?"

Only Parrow's _very_ closest confidants and associates ever called him captain. Anyone else who proved so audacious were never heard from thereafter. It just wouldn't do to have his carefully cultivated public image of solid citizenry tarnished, however obscurely.

Jack snorted. "I trust you have already made sure the privacy screen and encryption codes are set, Helena." He didn't really entertain doubts about her security arrangements. Her use of his private nickname had already signaled that. It was just her way of tweaking him at the same time she assured him. Chief Executive Paris' wife was an intolerable tease. She was also absolutely loyal to her husband.

"It seems travel through the gap has become a bit irregular recently. Is there anything my many partners in trade and commerce should know about? Perhaps regarding that new base the RMN has set up over at Arrakis?"

"Really, Jack! How dull. Do you _always_ have to go directly to business talk? A girl likes a little foreplay sometimes, you know."

"Tell that to Hector. I'm just a boring old tax lawyer and trade consultant trying to find an angle for his friends to squeeze a few more bucks out of local commerce, before you government types squeeze it out of them in taxes."

"So you're going to try and squeeze me for information? That sounds _promising_." She looked at him form under her eyebrows, then raised one of them speculatively. "You really don't have to be so direct, after all, do you?"

"Helena, please!"

"Oooh, do I get begging next?" Her lips parted in a distinctly carnivorous grin.

"Hel-en-a! I don't really have time for this, and neither do you." Jack's face was rapidly turning red, in anger or embarrassment, he wasn't quite sure. "If the Mantee Navy is sniffing around the Philosophers' Arm there must be a reason. You know that some of my, er, trade associates are _very careful_ not to dip into the cookie jar too many times, just to avoid such military interest. Bad for trade. bad for taxes, and bad for your personal bank accounts."

"The Royal Manticoran Navy around here? All those young men in those deliciously severe uniforms! Now that could be fun." She laced a perfectly manicured finger against her lower lip and looking thoughtfully off into the distance.

"Until they start forcibly interfering with local 'salvage' operators," he said dryly, "and put a stop to our laudable efforts to repatriate stranded crews to the loving arms of their employers, and families.

"Really, Helena,, I need to find out who has been overfishing around here. There is no way the RMN would venture out here, as short- staffed and under budgeted as their downsized peacetime navy has become, just on the whim of an amorous admiral. Somebody out there is poaching, and my associates want very badly to find out who it is, and restore the semblance of order to local trade."

"Hmmmm. I t does seem as though the Ajax Arms Company has been increasing exports of late. I thought it was just another arms race involving Sparta and one or another of the little systems in the Peloponnesian Cluster, but it could be something else. There have been some strange communications recently from Syracuse. Dion the 2nd was always a strange bird, but some of these political flyers he has sent out sound are just plain weird. Maybe something is going on over there we should look into." Her previously coy manner was completely gone as the forceful intelligent women subsumed the unrepentant flirt.

_The duality of women's nature, _Parrow thought to himself.

"I'll try to look into the Ajax sales through my contacts. Could you use your diplomatic channels to check into the Peloponnesus and Syracuse?"

" Oh, darling, I'm sure its nothing. But yes, I'll send out a few feelers and see what's out there. Probably just those silly independent systems trying to raid each other again." This last she muttered more to herself than to the man on the screen. Her mind was already lining up names and places to contact, strings to pull, influence to use.

"Thank you for your time and counsel, Mrs. Paris" Jack murmured and blanked the contact. Once she had her mental claws around a quandary, there was no stopping her until she had the answers she wanted. And he knew that, despite the silly, bored, flirtatious bubble head she pretended to be, she was both very interested and very concerned about the possible interference of an outside military force. It wasn't just bad for business, it was bad for the health of her husbands government, and Helena was very protective of the government and the man who headed it.

Jacques, and therefore Jack, had a long standing relationship with Ajax Arms. Even the most civilized "commerce raider" had a need for arms and munitions to use in them. Any failure to back up his "requests" for material support with force, and the merchant captains who provided his way of life would just ignore him and run. But the need for discretion created a supply conundrum: one either had to spread purchases around between many sources in order to stay below regulatory radar, or develop a close symbiotic relationship with one supplier to reduce the chances of leaks. Fewer ears meant greater internal security was possible, but smaller purchases made the money trail harder to follow and (more importantly) less noticeable to begin with. The Laffite organization had opted for the mutually beneficial exclusive arms trade relationship with Ajax, trusting that self interest would encourage the supplier to keep things comfortably below the radar. Now Jack needed to find out if someone at Ajax Arms was getting injudiciously greedy, unforgivably sloppy or just plain treacherous.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Chapter 2 has been changed a bit, the part at the end got moved to the begining of Chapter 3. Thank you for your patience and a big shout out to kaktas for reviewing and motivating me to update. Please remeber I am not the author but I do pass on all reviews to my Dad who is. I hope you enjoy and if you ever want explinations for some of the hidden puns, please leave a review and I will reply. **

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it isn't ours, please don't sue.**

***

Nausea assaulted Slim's senses as the _Wanderlust_ dropped out of hyperspace and into the newtonian universe. The translation had been at the usual safe minimal velocity, and the discomfort in the pit of his stomach was short-lived, but very real all the same. Some veteran spacers claimed they got used to it after a while, but he doubted very much that was much more than braggadocio, posturing for the youngsters. Human physiology, no matter what weird and wonderful tweaks and alterations the genetic engineers had applied to the basic earth-formed genome, was the product of 5 million years of earthbound adaptation, and hyperspace was just plain unnatural. NO one had ever figured out why the passing nausea assaulted people during the downward translation, but then, no one had ever figured out morning sickness in newly pregnant women either. It just _was_!

Her Majesty's Navy was pulling into the Damocles System to pay a courtesy visit to one of the more influential local governments in the Philosopher's Arm. Troy was a rising economic force locally, and the hub of much of the trade that the fiercely independent planet-states used to exchange locally produced raw materials and manufactured goods. The locals also had a suspicious ability to "find" and repatriate "stranded" crewmembers from "lost" merchant ships that had been disappearing with increasing frequency while trading in the Arm. The warship would pull into a polite parking orbit, and the important bridge officers, plus or minus a few Marines, would pay a courtesy call on the local leadership to inquire how the Royal Manticoran navy might help make trading lanes more secure for the local authorities. The presence of Marines would be to assure that no-one missed the message behind the courtesy, that this was an armed incursion into local space and that the Wanderlust was prepared to deal forcibly with anyone found committing piracy or aiding and abetting pirates. Meanwhile the rest of the crew would get to cool their heals while the higher-ups were wined and dined planet-side.

The distribution of individual stars in this region was not as organized as most clusters or bands of suns. There was a relatively empty region within the local space (if anything about the impossibly vast reaches of interstellar space could ever be considered "local") that seemingly should have held several more star systems. It was instead a void, referred to as the Socratic Gap, across which trade had to journey to travel directly between several of the more prosperous planetary systems. The gravity waves that all modern starships used to "surf" through the enormous distances between the tiny balls of mass that constituted stars and their planetary harem were especially erratic in the Gap, sometimes stranding transiting ships and forcing them to drop into normal space in the midst of interstellar "nowhere" waiting for the next wave to swing through and power them on to their destination, much like the infamous Doldrums on Old Earth's oceans during the time of wind-powered navigation. Of course, such stranded starships should just putter along using their gravitic drives at sublight speeds, but this was equivalent to having the crew tow the old sailing ships behind row-boats. The interstellar distances were too vast to gain much at less than relativistic speeds. Most Merchanters just shutdown systems to save reaction mass while they waited for the next disturbance in the space-time continuum to swing through. Any lurking armed ships who found them in such a vulnerable state could have little trouble convincing the unarmed crew to surrender their ship and "accept" the hospitality of the raiders.

Environmental Specialist Stephan "Slimemaster" Schwarzpunct was an academic by nature and a researcher by training. Unlike regular Navy non-coms he was not in the habit of waiting for officers to anticipate problems and figure out solutions, or to order their underlings to solve it for them. "Slim" was used to using his own mind to extrapolate situations and identify possible areas for further study. The only way an "eternal student" remained at university long enough to approach PhD status was to have a nose for potential research projects that the department heads might fund. It wasn't a stretch to apply this inquisitive nature to naval technology, especially at the fuzzy interface between the Navy and the Marines.

The Navy was all about ships: detecting them, identifying them, and sooner or later, destroying them. Human crew members were just parts of the machinery helping the ship do whatever the Captain (or God, there really wasn't much difference) wished the ship to do. Marines, on the other hand, had to actually be ready to deal with other humans, in space or in ships or even on planets. Each Marine was capable of and trained for individual action, and while they were trained to act as a unit, they were individually armed and expected to individually use their weapons upon need. Most navy types had no need for the required basic training had-to-hand combat, except in the occasional bar fight while off the ship. Marines, on the other hand, were required to develop high skill levels in unarmed combat, both in free-fall/null-G environments and within gravity fields of various strengths. Stephan's responsibilities bridged that gap to a certain extent, since he was accountable for both the ship-board oxygen recycling system's algae growth tanks, and for the miniature algae systems the marines might need in a base camp without breathable atmosphere.

Although the Mark 23.6 microscrubbers are designed for planetside deployment within an enclosed environment, they may have an application on damaged ships stranded in the Gap. Given this command crew's history, and the nature of our current mission it is likely that we may encounter damaged ships we feel compelled to enter, crew and deliver to a nearby system. If the gravity waves don't cooperate the damaged ships may need to be occupied longer than normal expectations allow, and the need for a longer term ore larger scale application of the microscrubbers may present itself.

His note in his journal marked a new project to take up the long boring hours that seemed the norm for life in the Navy. The Mark 23.6 Scrubber units were designed to deploy individually with portable bubble enclosures, each unit providing enough oxygen recycling capacity for 40-50 Marines working and sleeping within the controlled environment, while creating enough excess O2 to resupply their personal breathing units for a 2 T-Day tour outside the artificial environment. They were designed to link up if several bubble units needed to be joined to create a larger enclosed space, for whatever reason.

Slim wasn't familiar with why the Marines would need larger or smaller environmental enclosures, nor was he concerned with such military details. His focus was on the little tanks of green goo that turned the waster products of human respiration into biomass and breathable Oxygen. If the algae needed a little help from some complicated organic materials to help them do their job, well, the human digestive system could provide that also. The basic theory was simple and elegant. The complications came in when you realized that said algae were turning all that carbon from the CO2 the Marines exhaled into even more green goo, and you had to make sure the bad gas got in while you let the good gas out, cleaned it up a bit, and released it back into the humans environment. Disposing of the excess algae that was created as a by-product was not usually an issue, space was a big place. However, if they set up on a planet, they had to neutralize the active biological elements in the waste before it contaminated the local environment (which was always a source of amusement to the Marines deployed on a planetoid without any atmosphere or life of any kind).

The problem that had presented itself to him was the possibility of a situation arising wherein battle damage (or sabotage) would disable a merchant ship's recycling system. While the _Wanderlust_ carried enough repair capability for her crew to apply short term fixes to their own ship, Merchanters were MUCH bigger and they would not have the redundant and battle hardened systems a warship like _Wanderlust_ took for granted. Given the unpredictable nature of travel within the Gap, a damaged Merchanter might still be stranded for longer than patchwork repairs on her environmental systems would last.

It seemed obvious to Stephan's' analytical mind that a damaged ship was just a larger version of the enclosure problem the Marines portable microscrubber units were designed to sustain. The main issue was scaling the little units up while still using their portability to allow salvage of any damaged ship. He could work out the math, and figure the flow rates, disposal needs, and lighting requirements (Algae still worked on photosynthesis after all, and the "photo" part was light), but he would need the help of an hardware engineer to figure out the plumbing, so to speak. Linking the systems together would also require more strength on onboard a merchant vessel if it was to hang together in the multiple "G" accelerations typical of any starship. The inertial dampeners could only do so much, and he was assuming the ship was damaged. He needed to bring in a relatively open-minded engineer who had the time and interest to help him on what was admittedly a purely theoretical problem. Slim decided he needed to talk to his friends in Marine territory about the issue. Maybe they would know of a relatively approachable engineer he could work with, outside the chain of command.

***

Helena Paris clung possessively to her husband's arm as the guests entered. It wasn't often that foreign dignitaries came to call this far from the centers of trade and culture, but then again, these emissaries weren't just passing through. The Star Kingdom of Manticore was sending a message, even if they only sent one heavy cruiser to deliver it. The celebrated personage in charge of this particular warship was _FAMOUS_, or infamous, depending on your point of view, and how many close relatives had died at her hands or by her side. Helena had done a little research on their honored guest, and was currently speculating on just what sort of trouble she had gotten into this time to be sent out in only one ship, to the very edges of human occupied space, to deal with a simple pirate issue.

_I suppose they don't have that many trained ship's crews, ships and command personnel left after that hideous business with Haven. What was the toll? 3 million dead, something like. And ALL over a little misunderstanding? Tsk tsk! She must have been guilty of an unfortunate "I told you so" to rate this assignment._

The ballroom/banquet facility was a large if not ornate structure, lined with simple but elegant pillars of subtly veined and colored rock cut from some of the impact craters on the other less fortunate planets in the Damocles System. Being surrounded by rock formed within the last century or so by simultaneous heating and crushing due to meteor impact was a subtle way the government and people of Troy reminded themselves daily of the ephemeral nature of their own existence. One little deviation in the orbit of Sword and Troy could end up a smoking ruin, like its sister planets closer to their primary. It did put things into perspective.

Jonathan Parrow nodded to Chief Executive Hector Paris and his wife as he entered the room. She was, as usual, dressed in a clinging gown with just enough cleavage to be noticed but not so much as to be vulgar. She wore a matching set of earrings and necklace made from pale blue impact gems mined on the inner planets (when the danger wasn't too great). They accentuated the line of her long elegant neck, and drew the eye to... well, he'd better not spend time getting distracted right now. He had too much to do tonight to let the feminine wiles of the First Lady distract him, much as he might want to be distracted.

He surveyed the crowd as the Royal Manticoran Navy made its ENTRANCE. Their dark dress uniforms were elegantly functional and the habitual confidence and grace of each officer's walk lent an air of quiet invincibility to the group. Conversation all but stopped as they came into the room. It was one thing to realize that the Lady warrior was taller than common and reportedly strikingly good looking; it was another thing entirely to see her first hand, towering over the other women and most of the men in the room. Most humans nearly 2 meters tall or taller, looked out of proportion, stretched or somehow mis-assembled. Their guest of honor, however, looked like a classical statue, just a little outsized compared to the normal run-of-the-mill specimen of Homo Sapiens. The proud arch of her neck and the vaguely Asian tilt to her deep brown eyes gave a slightly exotic air to her, without distracting from the intensity of her gaze as she casually took in her surroundings. The Sphinxian Treecat perched proprietarily on her shoulder only added to the mystique she radiated.

Despite himself, Jack was so captivated he almost missed the three armed men, suitably attired for the occasion, that casually took up positions around the room. As though the four muscular Marine officers that had accompanied her to this reception weren't enough to discourage any trouble makers. Most of her bridge staff were with her, and they fanned out throughout the gathered crowd of locals as they entered, starting casual conversations to break the ice.

The message was crystal clear. The Manticoran Navy was in "town" and they were perfectly comfortable there. Pirates and over-enthusiastic "entrepreneurs" be warned! All done very politely without a hint of push or shove. He had to admire the quietly efficient way military power and influence had just been seized; but Jack's eye was drawn away from the show by another stranger in the room.

She was the polar opposite of the famous naval hero they were currently entertaining: slightly smaller than average height, light brown hair, a nice but unremarkable face, dressed exactly so that she wasn't too showy, but neither was she underdressed. The rich brown tones of her gown were conservatively cut, and though she was wearing jewelry, the simple smoky citrines contributed to the overall pattern of ballroom camouflage. _This is a professional information hound, or I haven't seen the type before. _He guessed she was an agent for some interest group or other, trying to find out what the impact of the Navy's arrival would be on Troy, and possibly in the rest of the Philosophers' Arm. He surveyed the evolving geography of the crowded room, identified a few people with whom he could have a few short words and started to gradually move in a intercept vector with this new player.

Helena stood by as the captain was introduced (_wasn't she supposed to be an Admiral or something more?_). While her husband made idle conversation and she automatically kept up her bubble-head act, her attention was suddenly seized by the green eyed, six limbed creature on the Captains' shoulder. The 'cat's eyes were almost mesmerizing, as though it was examining her thoughts. She shook here head distractedly to break the strange spell, and when she glanced back, she could almost swear the cat _winked_ at her, flicked an ear, then trained its feline gaze on other people in the room. _What was that about?_

She looked around quickly, but nobody else had seemed to notice, or were too polite to indicate if they had. Helena had read some strange speculations about Treecats, most of which she put up to "Cat People" and their exaggerated devotion to their felines. But this "exchange" was just weird! And was that just a hint of a smirk or hidden smile from the corner of her guest's almond eyes, all the while listening intently to what Hector had to say? Helena Paris had the feeling she better not be in the position to keep secrets around these two. There was more to the arrival here on Troy of the most famous naval officer in the known galaxy than temporary exile over yet another scandal.

Andrea Jackson was just settling into her crowd observation mode when she noticed one of the local men moving in her direction. From his casual manner and slow approach, he expected her to notice him and was sending a clear message that he was as interested in discretion as she was. Good! A contact this quickly either meant she had badly misjudged her appearance, (she seriously doubted it) or he was another information farmer, who recognized a kindred sprit among the glamorous crowd. She hadn't arrived with the Navy, but her business here was just as official as it was low profile. They were here for guns and show, she was here for facts, contacts and to gain as much leverage as she could obtain for Her Majesty's Secret Service. No little black hand gun, no license to kill, no sabotage equipment, and definitely as little attention as possible. but she was an agent just the same; and the lab boys _had_ supplied her with a few neat little gadgets she might find useful on this particular mission. She made several slow steps into the path of her intended partner in conversation, just to let him know she understood his intent, and agreed to a meeting. The glittering multitude swirled past them, oblivious to their purposeful yet seemingly random mutual approach, as the two agents' social vectors converged.

***

The corridors in this part of the _Wanderlust_ were narrower than usual, and seemed to have fewer side branches than more densely populated parts of the ship. The polished metal gleamed with the customary spotlessness that occupied the time of so many of the navy's lower ranks. The lyrics from an ancient Old Earth comic opera song scrolled through his memory _"...I polished up the handle so care-full-ly, and now I am the ruler of the Queen's Nav-ee!" _

The winding nature of the passageways and the muted low-frequency sounds coming from behind the bulkheads, almost like a growling stomach of some gigantic beast, reminded Slim of the part of the ship he was in; the bowels, literally. All around him the waste products of 355 humans (and one Treecat) were being dealt with in as efficient a manner as the environmental engineers who designed her could work out. One doesn't just leave a trail of ... _stuff_ floating through space to mark your path. Furthermore, materials ejected while in hyperdrive tended to follow along and make a little cloud around vessel guilty of just dumping their waste "overboard". Of course it would have been frozen solid in an instant in the implacable cold and vacuum of space, but having a halo of human waste around your ship tended to make it hard for smaller craft to dock with her, and it even clouded the sensor array.

Thus a large part of the environmental system was devoted to recycling as much material as possible, and storing the rest until they reached an official disposal station. The simple camping equipment Slim had used back in his archeologist days had a similar arrangement. _So I guess we're just camping out in space, instead of on a planet, and that makes this big complicated warship nothing more than a large recreational vehicle!_

The thought amused him and he found himself mentally pursuing the ramifications of referring to the Queens Navy a bunch of rec-v's, when he suddenly bumped into the reason for his sojourn into this part of the ship.

"_Pardonez Mois_! You are looking for somesing, yes?" The short dark-haired man in the overused and underwashed work uniform stared myopically up at Slim from a height at least 15 centimeters lower than his. Slim was quickly snapped out of his reverie, as much by the clipped French accent as the physical impact itself.

"_Bon Jour Monsieur_! Are you perhaps, Engineering Specialist Henri Bonchance? I was told I could find him here somewhere, but I seem to have gotten turned around. I would like to discuss a problem...""

"Ssshhhhh!" The little man suddenly put his finger in front of his mouth in a quieting gesture, abruptly interrupting Slims introduction. "_Les Murs, ils ecoutent_!" he stared about him, crouched, both hands making the silencing gesture and indicating their surroundings. "Zee walls, zey listen."

He peered about as though someone might materialize in the hallway at any moment, which in this lonely part of the ship was about as likely as The Captain's Treecat suddenly developing a distaste for celery.

"_Allez!_ Come! Come quickly. We will talk where it is private!" He gestured nervously, both index fingers extended upward as though he were trying to direct an unseen choir, and led the way down the corridor to what looked like a service entrance in the wall. He paused, looked around again furtively and then looked directly at Slim. "You must avert your eyes while I unlock the lab!"

Stephan was having second thoughts about this little trip. The guy was obviously a bit off balance. But Sergeant Johansson had assured him Mad Henri was harmless, devoted to the welfare of the ship and his Captain, and an absolute genius with outside-the-box engineering. Slim had worked with and for some pretty nutty old professors before. Henri wasn't all that different. He obediently turned his head away and waited for permission to look back. A pneumatic door hissed open and light flooded out into the corridor, along with the strong smell of garlic.

"_Vite!_ Quickly, you must come in before zey notice my place"

He stepped in after the strange engineer and the door hissed shut on his heals. The room was large and completely cluttered with various mechanical paraphernalia, most of which Slim couldn't put a name to or even speculate on its function. A hot plate in the corner was apparently used for cooking meals when he was too busy (or too paranoid) to go to the ship's mess. A bowl held the remains of something cooked with a great deal of garlic, an odor that permeated the room. It was as though he had stepped through a magic door, out of the navy and into the laboratory of a retired inventor. It was obvious that no ship's cleaning crews ever penetrated this space.

"You ARE Henri, aren't you? The Marine Environmental Tech sent me to find you. I have a little problem I would like to run over with you."

"But of course, I am Henri! _Bienvenue_ to my little kingdom. Monsieur...?" The little man trailed off, inviting a reply.

Ship's Oxygen Renewal Specialist P.O. Stephan Schwartzpunct belatedly remembered his manners, and a little of the ancient language his new acquaintance obviously preferred. _"Pardon moi. Je m'appelle Stephan. Comment allez-vous?"_

"Please, monsieur, I am pleased you speak a little French, but I would not wish to tax you wit' it. My Standard is quite good, no? Still, you 'ave quite overwhelmed me wit' your effort. _Je suis votre serviteur._ I am your servant! What can Henri do for you?"

He no longer slouched over, once he was out of the corridor, and his expression had brightened considerably. But he still gestured as he talked with both hands, thumbs out, both forefingers pointed at some unknown target, moving them in mirrored unison to punctuate his words.

Slim was somewhat taken aback that his hard won language skills could be so casually labeled as speaking "a little French". The waitresses always found it delightful! Still, he had to admit he was short on practice with a true native speaker, rare as they are in a galaxy dominated by Standard-speech. Certainly the little engineer was trying to be very civil.

Henri turned, gesturing to his little lab and Slim noticed a large damaged bolt slung from a leather thong around his neck. He tried for a some humor to break the ice.

"Is that bolt a handy spare, or do you just use it to defend against the rats down here"

Henri's eyes suddenly hardened. "Zere are no rats on My Lady's ship!" He grabbed the bolt, almost shoving it up into Slims face. "Zis is my lucky piece, _mon boulon du bonchance_! My survival!" He vibrated with the vehemence of his emotion, shaking the bolt a the end of its leather thong.

"Look! Look! See zis bolt? See it? Zis bolt, she save my life! She is from, zee Madrigal. The ship was being blown apart, an' zere were lazers slicing through 'er, an' I sought zat I waz a gonner. Zen one beam burst through zee 'ull straight toward me. _Je meurs! _I thought, zen _mais_, it struck zis very bolt an' waz deflected away! Zee bolt, she waz cut out of zee ship, an' no sooner 'ad zee lazer miss, did she come into my hand." He held up the palm of his right hand and proudly displayed the burn mark the hot bit of metal had caused. "It waz zen I knew zee ship, she wanted me to survive. So I took zee bolt an' 'eld it an' found my way to zee pinnace where zee survivors had gazerred, an' left zee ship. She was destroyed, but 'er spirit, she stayed wit' me! She loved me best for I treated 'er like a true lover, an' she wished _pour mon_ survival! I 'ave witnessed it now several times, my dear lover protects me!" The little frazzled man kissed the twisted blackened metal knob of the bolt gently for all his excitement at relating the tale. Coming up for air he turned his wide blood shot eyes once more to his captive audience.

"If you must know she 'as done zis more zan once! She is mon guardian angel! When we were captured by zose _imbéciles_ _fanatique_, zey killed all zee women ovicers." He paused to spit on the floor and then twitched and looked about as if worried someone had heard his spittle spattering on the ground. "Zose were not men! Zey were _fils de pute et vraiment baiseurs,_ err, how you say-" He suddenly jerked up and looked around again. After a few moments he came back to himself. "Well let us say zey would not 'ave lived long if zey 'ad done such a thing on Corsica. We are true men. But ah _oui_ I was telling you about zee prison.

"Well zey 'ad us all locked up zere, good an' tight; but one night I 'ad a dream. In zee dream I met a beautiful woman. I knew at once she waz zee Madrigal! She told me to use 'er to unlock zee cell doorz. My Lady, zee Captain, was come to rescues us. In zee noise and stink of zee fighting I used zis very bolt to break zee lock. We were out of zee cells even as _mon grande dame_ waz arriving. I cut zee Duchess' work in half an' survived zee disaster entirely! It waz all thanks to zis bolt!"

He held up the bolt again and kissed it once more with dramatic flare. "I served on Madrigal as her Maintenance Engineer. I took care of 'er like a lover an' when she waz at her 'er end, she took care of me. Even now, we are as one." He caressed it again. "I keep zis piece with me always, an' always I come back alive. Zee military ovicials zey wonted me to retire, but _je n'irai pas!_ I shall never leave zee duchess' side! _Mon belle copine_, zee Madrigal, she say «Don't leave 'er side! » and I do what my lady commands. She keep me alive an' I serve both of zem with my very soul! If I am fated to die, I will do so with zee duchess an' my love." He kissed the bolt a third time his lips darkened now with soot.

He paused, breathing hard. The intensity of his expression bored into the startled young draftee.

"Ah! I see it on your face. You do not believe. But I 'ave proof." He suddenly lurched over to a desk buried under various papers and drawing devices, and snatched up a tattered looking document.

"I 'ave worked out zee t'ermodynamique details 'ere." Holding the notebook triumphantly high. "Zey laugh at Henri, but Zey do not read my proof. Zee Madrigal, she spare me _pour un grande destin_. Zis bolt is _l'seprit du Madrigal_, and she will protect us!" The light of fanaticism blazed in his eyes, daring the young specialist to doubt him.

Somewhat shaken by the virulence of the little engineers reaction, Slim quickly started to apologize. Henri waved him to silence.

"No, my young friend, you could not know, It all 'appened long ago, at zee start of zee war.

"Admiral Courvosier took out zee little Destroyer Madrigal in support of zee Grayson Fleet (although it was hardly a fleet at zat time) against a raiding party of those little vermin from Masada. He 'ad no way of knowing that a peep Battlecruiser was hiding nearby, 'on loan' to those _diables primitif_. When zee cruiser sent a flight of missiles after zee Graysons, mon Admiral, he stay behind to shield zem wit' our superior defensive systems.

Madrigal, she fought bravely, but in zee end, zey were too much. Zee Graysons escaped, but Madrigal she was destroyed. But _Mon Grande Dame_, she returned to save us. Now we, Madrigal and I, we protect her. For zis reason alone was I saved."

The bolt still hovered under his nose. As Stephan examined it, he noted that the damage appeared to be where some intense energy source had partly melted the centimeter thick hardened alloy like butter. Although he was no student of military engagements (at least until they had been buried a while and dug up again), every child's basic History of the Star Kingdom included a mention of the plight of the crew of the Madrigal. His eyes widened and he nodded his head in respect as he realized he was standing in the presence of a ghost out of that past. The horrors that crew had experienced would have driven anyone around the bend. It wouldn't hurt one lowly algae tank tender to give the little engineer the respect and tolerance he had earned.

"I see. Please forgive me my ignorance, Henri." Stephan murmured respectfully. "I am comforted by the presence of _l'seprit du Madrigal_ on this ship."

" Ça ne casse rien. Is not'ing. You could not know. I am just an old engineer who spends too much time lost in 'is past." But Ship's Engineer Henri Bonchance eyes glittered with unshed tears as smiled up at his new friend.

_Curiouser and curiouser. You've really tumbled down the rabbit hole this time Stephan. Is the March Hare nearby?_


End file.
